


Change To Live By

by DaaroMoltor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Death Eaters, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Powerful Harry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaaroMoltor/pseuds/DaaroMoltor
Summary: Draco Malfoy had been assigned to be his partner in the early spring of 2001.A sprinkling of shit on top of a life that had already been too full of it, Harry had thought.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Green light flashes almost impossibly bright in the hangar. In the sudden burst of it, he sees his shadow painted black against the wall._

* * *

Draco Malfoy was assigned to be his partner in the early spring of 2001.

When Harry had been called to Robards’ office, his assumption had been that he’d get another “ _talking to”_ regarding the safety procedures he’d admittedly disregarded just the _slightest_ bit during the Dewitt case. After knocking, he’d entered the room with an expression he had hoped had appeared appropriately castigated.

“Sit down, Potter,” Robards had said, glancing briefly up from his paperwork and gesturing with his quill at the chair opposite his desk. “We have a lot to discuss.”

And then everything had promptly gone to shit.

Harry hadn’t even had the wherewithal to properly protest for the first couple of minutes; he’d just sat there, frozen in disbelief, mouth slightly agape.

“He started full-time back in ’99,” Robards had explained, doing him the questionable kindness of giving a backstory after already having sealed his fate. “Cooperation going right back to ’98. Malfoy relayed us information through his solicitor shortly after the end of the War. This information quickly proved so valuable that regular contact was established. Eventually, a situation emerged wherein Mr. Malfoy’s knowledge was deemed to be necessary in real-time, and he was brought on as a liaison during an auror operation. During this, his performance exceeded all expectations, and things proceeded accordingly.”

Harry had stared blankly into space, unwilling – _unable –_ to parse what he was hearing.

“This is all classified, by the way, Potter,” Robards had added, driving home the final nail in the coffin.

Had someone asked Harry before he’d entered Robards’ office that day to describe Draco Malfoy’s relation to the Ministry, Harry might have– if struck by an uncharacteristic urge to be diplomatic on the matter – used the word _tense._

The story the public knew – and that the press had reported wildly on for a good many months – was that dark artifacts had been uncovered on the grounds of Malfoy Manor in late summer after the War. Malfoy, who had previously been at least moderately cooperative during his questionings, and thus been expected to get off without time in Azkaban, had resisted arrest. Things had gotten out of hand quickly and two aurors had sustained significant damage, inflected both by Malfoy himself and by the dark artifacts he had refused to give up.

His trial had been long and complicated since then, a seemingly never-ending loop of house arrests, new findings in his case, and extensions that kept being granted; public consensus had settled on that he had an exceptionally talented solicitor, and pockets deep enough to line those of whom had the power to delay the time in Azkaban that was no doubt awaiting him.

Frustration had surged within Harry whenever his old nemesis’ name had shown up in the papers again – “ _Here it comes again_ ,” Ron would say, rolling his eyes “ _the Malfoy Madness_.” Hermione, meanwhile, pursed her lips and muttered sarcastic things about his “ _unmatched capacity for maturity and forgiveness, truly_ ” – and he would try to get a hold of his case file. It was thoroughly classified, however, supposedly due to the extreme nature of the artifacts uncovered on the property Malfoy had been the head of since Lucius’ passing, and far above the paygrade of a junior auror.

Even junior aurors named Harry Potter, as it had turned out.

That day in Robards’ office, though, it had laid open on its first page in front of Harry, the faint and purple _RESTRICTED_ shimmering with spellwork across the parchment. There had been a photograph of Malfoy magically pinned to it, placed in a square on a document altogether horrifyingly alike Harry’s auror license, laying in a drawer of the desk in his office. Harry’s persistent feeling of _this can’t be right_ had not been helped by the fact that the photo was one taken as a part of the criminal charges brought against Malfoy, his face looking taught and young, left arm lifting every now and again to show the camera the Dark Mark.

"He is to be your partner, Potter," Robards said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple. "I'm not sure what about this is so difficult to understand."

"But he doesn't even _work_ here," Harry had said, despite all that Robards had just told him, still more bewildered than upset. "He’s not an auror."

"He is on an accelerated course," Robards had said, a finality in his voice, addressing the part that Harry found the _least_ contentious about the whole thing. "He'll be certified before June and not join you before then. There’ll be no issue with his credentials."

Harry had not stood when Robards did.

“Why me?” he had asked. “Why-… We _hate_ each other.”

Robards had given him a flat and unimpressed look. “I expect professionalism from my aurors, Potter.”

Harry had wanted to point out that it was a stupid bloody thing to hire _Malfoy,_ of all people, if that was the case, but the flinty look in Robards’ eye had told him that the head of the Auror Department had already anticipated what he was about to say and that he did not approve.

Harry had bitten his tongue, self-preservation more than restraint keeping him.

His silence, though, was perhaps what had softened Robards enough to grant him the cruel truth:

“It is because you are Harry Potter,” he had said, walking over to the door and holding it open – such a clear message that the meeting was over that Harry could no longer ignore it. “And we need your name to balance out his.”


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_His heart stops in his chest before his mind even registers what has happened._

_Then he spins around._

* * *

Those words had echoed around Harry’s head for months.

It had gone so far that he’d even started questioning his choice to join the Ministry in the first place. If they were willing to use his name to manipulate the public into not rioting over the fact that a bloody _Death Eater_ was allowed to join the ranks of the aurors, what were they _not_ willing to use it for? Did they even want him for anything _but_ his name and the public approval it could buy them?

Harry’s partner – _former_ partner, now, all of a sudden –, Wilkins, had been paired up with the tall blonde woman, Craig, who’d finished up her training the same month Harry had got the news about Malfoy. Harry had always found Wilkins a bit slow (in mind and wand both, if he was to be honest) but the loss of his partner still struck him hard, as it meant that he was no longer allowed in the field; solo-work was strictly prohibited. 

Stuck in his office with the paperwork of cases he never got to have any real impact on, Harry had waited for Malfoy to pass his exams and be granted the license to practice as a junior auror. It was a period of his life he had spent wishing time would move faster, just as fervently as he did for it to go slower.

Time, though, without Hermione’s old turner, had moved as it ever did.

Then, one day, Harry had looked up and Draco Malfoy had been standing in the door to his office.

Malfoy hair had been swept back, not unlike the way it had been back in their school days, though far less rigidly. A bit longer at the top than at the sides and in the back, it was more like he’d pushed it back with his hands rather than gelled it back with a comb. There had been stubble on his cheeks, too, adding a shadow and maturity to his face that Harry had not been able to help but to compare to his own still patchy growth. He could also recall that his overall impression of Malfoy had been that he was _bigger;_ not that he’d suddenly become a _large_ man, either through an overabundance of fat or muscles, nor though an unprecedented early-twenties growth-spurt. It appeared, simply, that the gangliness that had clung to him ever since Harry had met him at Madame Malkin’s had finally disappeared.

He looked like an _adult_.

(In ways Harry had not yet fully felt that he had become.) 

Malfoy’s eyes had turned from Wilkins’ abandoned desk in the corner and fixed on him.

“Potter.”

Malfoy’s voice had been utterly devoid of any emotion, his name a simple acknowledgment on the Slytherin’s lips.

And Harry had never heard him say it that way before.

For a moment, he had been stunned, and nothing else. He’d stared, and then unease had crept in. Then frustration. Then annoyance. Then a whole flood of unpleasant, ugly, vicious thoughts and feelings had crashed down on him; like being hit with the entirety of sixth year all at once.

Harry hadn’t been able to pinpoint _why,_ but the total lack of any _care_ at all in Malfoy’s voice just crawled under his skin and _set him on fire._

“ _Malfoy,”_ he’d spat.

And that, at least, had provoked a reaction.

Malfoy had narrowed his eyes dangerously and Harry’s face had twisted into something best described as a snarl.

Needless to say, the professionalism Robards had requested had been sorely lacking.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_The body hasn’t reached the floor yet, seemingly suspended with an eerie sort of grace mid-fall._

_Then it hits with a dull thud._

* * *

In the period between the end of the War and the moment when Draco Malfoy reentered his life, Harry had forgotten the Slytherin’s unique ability to get underneath his skin.

He’d thought Ginny had trod on his nerves, those last couple of months where they’d still deluded themselves into thinking that they loved each other as anything other than as a brother and sister, but that hardly held a candle to the effect Malfoy had had on him. Harry’s had blood felt as though it had been replaced by fiendfyre most days, a wrong look or a raised eyebrow more than enough to make him want to punch Malfoy’s aristocratic nose right off his stupid pasty face.

The rest of the department hadn't been much kindlier inclined to him.

Nor the rest of the Ministry of Magic, for that matter.

Nor wizarding Britain at large, to be frank. 

The news of his arrival – his fucking _employment –_ at the ministry spread like wildfire both within and without, and everyone seemed to have a theory as to how it had come to be. A perpetual hiss seemed to follow Malfoy about, even when Harry was with him, as people put their heads together to gossip. The Prophet, meanwhile, ran the story frontpage for a full week, trying out a stupider bloody headline each day and always finding ‘ _anonymous sources working closely with the aurors’_ to fuel their absolute bloody garbage.

The ministry had put as much of the story out to the press as possible in an attempt to dampen speculation. This, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly enough to be sufficiently juicy to be able to compete with what the creative reporters at the Prophet could come up with and, so, speculation had kept right on running rampant.

And Harry had found that he could hate Malfoy just a _little bit more,_ because all the spotlight that he had managed to shine away from himself through living as boring a life he possibly could as an auror… was suddenly back on him.

_“Mr. Potter, what would you say Malfoy’s motivations are?!”_

_“Mr. Potter, do you feel safe at work with a Death Eater as your partner?!”_

_“Mr. Potter, how do you think families in Britain are feeling, knowing that Malfoy might be the one to show up when they call on the ministry for aid?!”_

_“Mr. Potter, what is the ministry’s reasoning in hiring a Death Eater?!”_

Harry had wanted to scream at them. _How the fuck am I supposed to know?!_ It hadn’t been as though anyone had talked to _him_ – as bloody fucking always, everything had just been decided _for_ him.

And Harry had thought he’d been rid of that kind of thing, now that he was an adult.

And thinking _that_ had made him feel naïve and stupid and childish.

“I hate him,” Harry had said, forehead resting against Ron and Hermione’s kitchen table. “I hate him _so much_.”

Hermione had put another cooling spell on the bump on his head where a photographer had accidentally hit him with his camera, flailing it about in an attempt to keep it safe in the ruckus outside Ron and Hermione’s apartment. Their wards had gone haywire with the swarm of press outside, and Harry had been caught in the mob until they’d set them right and managed to grab him. She’d given him a potion, too, but it would be another couple of minutes before it went into effect.

“It’s not his fault, though, is it,” she’d said.

“Are you actually _defending_ the ponce?” Ron – who’d become more understanding of Harry’s so-called _madness_ regarding Malfoy in light of recent events – had asked, voice high with incredulity. “After everything he and his family did to you?”

“I don’t hold people responsible for their families, Ronald,” Hermione had said archly. “But I’m not defending him, I’m simply saying that the press has always been like this, Malfoy or no.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s _because_ of Malfoy,” Ron had insisted.

“They’re perfectly capable of being insufferable on their own, as you well know,” Hermione had insisted. “And, besides, I hardly think Malfoy is enjoying the attention, either.”

Harry had scowled hard into the table and dug up another morsel of hatred for Malfoy for stealing the sympathy of his friend – rightfully belonging to _him,_ and _only_ him _–_ away.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_He doesn’t think. Can’t. Just cast spell upon spell upon spell._

_Until he stands alone._

* * *

Their first cases had been dead boring.

Harry suspected he would never know if there had been an actual reason for it – was the ministry scared that they’d fuck it up if they’d given them something too difficult? Were they worried that any complex or interesting case might bring even more attention from the media? Were they just trying to start them out slow as partners? – or if the timing had been such that there simply had been a lull in criminal activity around that time.

The very first had involved fibbed papers for potions imports, which hadn't even had them leaving the office.

Harry had sat for three days and stared at parchment – _Spleen of Rat, 24pc; Armadillo bile, 4 standard bottles; Fluxweed, 13 bushels; Billywig Sting Slime, 6oz, 12 jar –_ , looking for any discrepancies between the ledgers given in France and those given in England.

“Fresh wiggenbush?” Malfoy had said, late one Thursday afternoon. “At this time of year?”

It hadn't been fresh wiggenbush.

Turned out that the papers had not been fibbed solely for tax purposes; the perpetrators had been attempting to smuggle in rhinoceros’ horn and powdered witches mummy.

Robards had praised Malfoy on his " _exemplary eye for detail_ " as he'd handed them their next case – another one that would keep them shut in their offices – and Harry’s blood had boiled.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_For a moment he can’t move._

_‘Please’, his mind keeps repeating, ‘please, please, please, **please**.’_

* * *

By the time they had actually been let out of the ministry, Harry had been prepared to blast himself out of the place. As such, he hadn’t even complained about the assignment they’d been given, namely delivering a stern talking-to to the pillock who’d broken the statue of secrecy after a pub brawl gone awry Saturday night.

“The delights of an overburdened justice system,” Malfoy had commented with a sneer, after having looked over the case file.

Harry had had a sneaking suspicion that the Ministry was using his name again, which had only been reinforced by Malfoy continuing: “Well, after you hit them with your _I’m-disappointed-in-you_ face, oh Chosen One, they’re sure to live their life free from sin. Yes, that one exactly, Potter, good job.”

Harry had attempted to school his face into doing something different but, as he didn’t quite know what expression Malfoy was referring to, he’d ended up with something he feared looked mostly constipated.

Malfoy had confirmed his suspicions by laughing at him as he’d led the way to their portkey.

The sad thing had been that Harry wasn’t exactly unused to his name being invoked in matters of discipline. Far more often than he’d ever admit, he’d overheard parents using his name when their children misbehaved; he’d personally witnessed himself spoken of both like he was some sort of Santa-figure, essential to gain the favor of ( _“You treat your sister nice while you’re at grandma’s, do you hear, Michelle? Harry Potter will know if you are mean to her again!”),_ as an aspirational figure ( _“Eat your peas, dear! You’ll never be strong like Harry Potter if you don’t finish your peas!”),_ and – a bit disturbingly – as a bogey man, important not to anger (“ _Jackson! Stop hitting your sister! Don’t you know what Harry Potter does to evil little wizards?!”)._

Harry Potter, harbinger of obedience and submission _–_ what would the Dursleys have said if they’d known?

(Or his teachers at Hogwarts, for that matter.)

For all the relief he felt at actually getting a quasi-real assignment, the whole situation had still irked him enough that he’d stubbornly insisted he’d be a lookout while Malfoy went and dealt with the man.

Malfoy had rolled his eyes at him but acquiesced without any further objections.

Harry had remained where the portkey had dropped them while Malfoy had walked off, staring into nothingness and stewing in his frustration. The thought that this would be Malfoy’s first official foray into fieldwork hadn’t crossed his mind.

Then a sharp tone had suddenly drawn his attention.

Malfoy and the burly wizard they’d come to admonish stood on either side on a white gate in a hedgerow, and neither of them had looked particularly pleased with the situation. Malfoy’s mouth had been a tight line, and the man had been red in the face with anger.

Then the wizard had spat in Malfoy’s face.

“ _Oi_!” Harry had exclaimed, setting off in their direction before a single conscious thought had entered his mind, “What the hell was that about!?”

Perhaps Harry would have found their near identical expressions funny at another point in time – like children caught with their hands in a jar of sweets – but he’d been too pissed off at that moment to notice.

He’d flicked a wordless, wandless scourgify at Malfoys face as he reached the gate.

“What the- You trying to take my nose off?!”

Harry hadn’t even looked at Malfoy.

“Well!?” he’d demanded of the man, as no answer had appeared forthcoming.

“Ehum, sorry, there, Harry Potter, sir...” the man had stuttered out. “'s only... well, he's a Death Eater, ain't he, sir?"

“He’s a fucking _auror_ , you twit!” Harry had snapped, his temper – as ever those days – unable to stand any further testing. “And that was _assault.”_

“But-“ the man had started to protest, and Harry had had _enough._

“D’you really think that they would’ve let him work at the ministry if he’d been a proper Death Eater?!”

Harry had glared and entirely missed Malfoy’s startled look at his side.

“S-suppose not,” the had said, eyes flicking between Harry and Malfoy. “I- hm-… ‘pologies, there, Mr. Malfoy, sir. Them preconceptions ran with me, there – ain’t never been the best at thinking before doin’, my Susie says.”

And, as he’d already been worked up and angry, that had been enough of a cue for Harry to go off on him about the reason for their visit.

“Is this _really_ what you want us to spend our time on!?” Harry had demanded, finally, almost ten minutes later, “You said it yourself – there’s still Death Eaters about!”

“No, sir, ‘course not, I- I wasn’t thinking, I-“

“Damn right you weren’t!”

Malfoy had handed the man a written warning – one that Harry, annoyingly enough, hadn’t even had a thought to bring, even though it was procedure – and that had been it, really.

A little yelling had hardly been enough to get all the fight out of Harry’s system, though, especially not with how the past weeks had been. He’d still felt tightly wound and wrong-footed when they’d returned, tapping his foot impatiently as the elevator had carried them slowly back up to their office from Portkeys.

It had been empty, save the two of them.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to go off on him like that,” Malfoy had said lightly.

Harry had started at the sound of his voice, then turned slightly towards him with narrowed eyes.

“He broke the law, and a dozen muggles saw him.” Harry had returned his eyes to stare at the elevator doors, which had been staying stubbornly closed. “He got off lightly.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, I think he just about pissed himself,” Malfoy had said. “Though the breach of the Statute of Secrecy wasn’t what I was referring to.”

Harry had frowned at him, not sure what else it could be.

“Oh,” he’d said then when it clicked.

He’d opened his mouth to develop his answer somewhat, but found he’d had nothing to say. He’d ended up just shrugging uncomfortably.

“I could have handled myself perfectly well, you know,” Malfoy had continued. “I hardly expected your hero-complex to extend as far as me, anyway.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry had assured him sharply, forgetting to deny the presence of a hero-complex altogether.

“Oh?” Malfoy had said, lips quirking as he raised his eyebrows. “Could have fooled me.”

There had been something entirely non-confrontational about Malfoy, his questions placid and the small crook of his mouth seemingly born from genuine amusement.

The elevator had never traveled as bloody slowly between floors as it had that day.

“He _spat_ on you,” Harry had said, eventually, as Malfoy watched him patiently. “In your _face.”_

“Disgusting, I admit,” Malfoy had said, with a slight curl of his upper lip. “But not something I would have guessed would provoke your ire to that degree. Or, at least not on my account.”

Harry had finally turned fully face Malfoy. His gray eyes had met Harry’s, face entirely impassive.

The elevator bell had finally dinged, indicating their arrival at their floor.

“Well,” Harry had said, the doors sliding open at his side. “Perhaps I was mostly cross that he thought of doing it before I did.”

Malfoy had blinked. Then, to Harry’s utter bewilderment, he’d tilted his head back and laughed. A full laugh, straight from the belly, his whole face transformed by it.

Harry’s attention had only been torn away once the doors started closing again and he was startled into slamming the button to keep them open.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

_Appeals hasn’t ever helped before, but he can’t help but resort to them now._

_He manages one, stumbling, step._

* * *

The first time Harry had ended up in something one might approximate as a combat situation with Malfoy as his partner was almost three months after his old nemesis had first started at the department.

The call had been over a string of hexed mailboxes over in Sheffield that bit the fingers of any muggles that dared to attempt any interaction. Benign, as far as these things went, but post-war policy mandated the presence of aurors when any muggle objects were found to have been tampered with.

Harry and Malfoy had appeared on a wizarding side-street at around noon and, when they’d stepped out into the muggle world, they’d practically stumbled right into their perpetrator. Harry had never before – nor did he feel like he was likely to ever again – experienced such a perfect example of someone being caught red-handed; right in front of them, the young wizard had stood with his wand drawn, a hex halfway past his lips.

The three of them had stood frozen for a moment and stared at each other in disbelief.

Then there had been a lot of running.

Eventually, as they’d started gaining on him, the wizard had started throwing spells over his shoulder. Startled muggles around them had yelped, and Malfoy had cursed quietly under his breath about the paperwork that now awaited them.

It had meant, however, that they now were licensed to use their own wands.

The young man hadn’t made use of anything that would cause lasting harm, should they have been hit, but a stunner taking them down would still mean that they’d lose him. They’d both known it and, as such, they both went heavy on the defense. Their perpetrator must have had the same realization as they, though, because he kept a steady barrage of hexes raining down on them. 

Eventually, though, Harry had spotted an opening he hadn’t been able to help but to take; as the man stumbled over a curb, his attention had lapsed for a moment and the magic had fizzled out without leaving his wand.

It had been but a moment, though.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

“ _Stupefy!”_

Harry hadn’t even had time to curse himself for his rashness before the spell exploded in a firework of red in front of him.

“ _Petrificus totalus,”_ Malfoy had said, coming to a stop at Harry’s side, and the perpetrator had fallen frozen to the ground. Malfoy had then turned to him and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Merlin, you’re so predictable, Potter.”

“Did you…?” Harry had asked, gesturing vaguely at the air in front of him.

“Stop your sorry arse from taking a stunner to the face?” Malfoy had asked, hardly glancing his way as he summoned their perpetrator’s wand to his hand. “I did, yes, and will make very sure to make a mention of it in the report. Several times, perhaps.”

Harry hadn’t even managed a witty retort, too rattled still at how flawlessly Malfoy had read him and intercepted.

One might even have called it… _effective teamwork._

Harry had shaken his head at the ridiculous notion, deciding that it must have been a fluke.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_Another step, then another. He nearly staggers forward._

_Then he falls to his knees._

* * *

It had been an odd thing, really. One day, Malfoy would say that he was an oblivious moron for not grasping the scope of his renown, and the next, he'd call him Golden Boy and tell him that his fame was getting to his head. Harry should have told him off about it, really. Told him to settle on one of the two or shut up about it.

But... he didn't.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” he’d say, oddly without bite, and Malfoy’s grin would only grow.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

_“Please,” he says, “please, please, please, **please**.”_

_He drags his hands over every part of the body he can reach, trying to find and heal any injury he already knows won’t be there._

* * *

The first time Malfoy had come to Grimmauld Place had been after Harry’d been stupid and rash.

Well.

_Unusually_ stupid and rash.

It had been smugglers again, because Robards had seemed to have gotten it into his head that was some sort of bloody specialty of theirs. They’d been too late to catch them, cracks of apparition echoing only seconds after their own, but they’d at least been close enough on their heels to force them to leave behind a lot of their goods.

Harry’d been cross about it, having looked forward to flinging some hexes around and being done with the case, and that was really his only excuse for doing what he did.

As they’d been going through the smugglers’ loot, they’d found a small chest sitting atop a stack of crates.

And Harry had opened it.

“ _Potter, don’t_ -!”

It hadn’t been cursed, but whatever powder had been in it had swirled up in the air and Harry had breathed it in before the thought that maybe he oughtn’t had even begun to cross his mind.

Malfoy had later told him that he’d fallen to the floor seizing, and it had taken a full body-bind before he’d been able to apparate them to St. Mungo’s.

The healers had chucked a bezoar down his throat the moment he’d arrived, and that had been the whole of it really (though Malfoy had reported that the Unspeakables had come to claim the little chest, even so). The true punishment for his idiocy came the next morning, when it turned out he’d picked up a horrible flu during his brief hospital stay.

“A drastic weakening of the immune system is a documented side-effect that Bezoars,” the healer in the floo had said, almost disappearing from the fireplace as she leaned back to write something in her notebook. “It’s not a terribly common, but hardly unheard of either. It’s to do with one’s antibodies, and the way the stone processes poison; some people deal with it differently, we’ve found. Seems like you’re one of the lucky few, most like, with how fast this came on.”

She’d nodded in Harry’s general direction as he blew his nose.

“Nothing to worry about, though, I should say. It might take a little longer to clear, but pepper-ups should do the trick as well as usual. Not more than twice a day, though, and do make sure to get in touch again if you notice your tongue turning green.”

“Why would my tongue be-“ but the fire had already gone out.

Harry had sighed, looked heavenward for a moment, and then apparated straight back up to bed.

Six days later, and he had seen no sight of betterment. His pepperup, sold in crates of a dozen, had run out the day prior. He’d tried to simulate the effects by drinking copious amounts of generously honied tea, but the attempt had really only resulted in him having to go to the loo every five minutes.

On the afternoon of that sixth day of suffering, he’d been sat in the kitchen, cocooned in the thickest blanked he owned, nibbling at some biscuits. His appetite always tended to go when he got sick, and he’d frowned over the stew and potatoes Kreacher had put in front of him earlier until the house-elf had removed it with a contemptuous glare. When the doorbell had rung, he’d appeared by Harry’s chair with a small _pop._

“Master Harry is expecting _visitors_?” he’d demanded, eyes narrowed.

“Er, yeah,” Harry had realized, having forgotten about the owl Malfoy had sent him in the morning until that very moment. “Just my partner from work, though, so don’t worry about having something prepared or anything like that.”

Kreacher’s already thin lips had narrowed further.

“It is being very rude not to have anything to offer guests,” he’d said, in that half-to-himself manner of speaking he’d never quite shaken. “Thinking Kreacher a poor elf indeed they will.”

Harry had had no time to apologize, or to reassure him that Malfoy was unlikely to stay more than a few moments anyway, before Kreacher had already popped off to open the door.

A case of nerves had begun to worm around in Harry’s belly, but a sneezing fit had stopped him from examining the sensation further.

“Bless you,” Malfoy had said mildly, in lieu of a greeting.

Harry had squinted up at him through the wetness in his eyes. Malfoy had been dressed in the wine-dark auror-robes still, his usual leather briefcase in his hand.

“Thanks,” Harry had managed, blowing his nose.

“Charming,” Malfoy had said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well…” Harry had replied, his brain too mushy with fever to go any further with the statement.

“… So,” Malfoy had said, then, after a moment of silence that Harry had realized only once it had passed might have been awkward. “Your report for the Chomsky case. Did you have it?” 

“Oh, yeah, right,” Harry had said, having already forgotten despite there not having been literally any other reason for Malfoy to be in his home. “It’s in my bedroom, I’ll just-… I’ll pop up to get them. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He’d waited for Malfoy’s small nod of assent before he’d apparated upstairs.

His whole bedroom had been covered by a layer of tissues at that point and, with his whole brain clogged with snot, it had taken him a couple of minutes to remember that a simple _accio_ would likely be far faster than running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Glad that Malfoy hadn’t been there to witness his idiocy, he’d popped back down.

To find Kreacher staring unblinkingly at his partner.

Malfoy, on his part, had kept his eyes firmly straight ahead, though the tension with which he’d done so told on the fact that this was house elf-behavior even he was uncomfortable with.

As had the way his gaze had immediately fixed on Harry, shining with a silent plea for help.

“Kreacher…?” Harry had asked, hesitantly.

“You is a Black,” Kreacher had said, eyes still unmovingly on Malfoy, somewhere between accusatory and reverent. “Master has _not_ told Kreacher that a _Black_ is being visiting today.”

“Uhm, yeah, right,” Harry had said, having forgotten about Malfoy’s ties to Sirius’ old house – and, by extension, house-elf. “Kreacher, this is Draco Malfoy.”

The sound that had escaped Kreacher could not fairly be described as either a wail or a squeal, as it had been something squarely in between the two.

“Master has not _told_ Kreacher,” Kreacher had repeated, turning his eyes, wide with distress, upon Harry.

“Malfoy is just getting a file for work,” Harry had said, hurrying across the floor to hand the file to Malfoy. “See, there, he’ll be leaving now, it doesn’t matter that we don’t have any scones.”

This time, there had been no mistaken Kreacher’s sound for anything but one of utter despair.

“Merlin, Malfoy, just-“ Harry had shooed him desperately back towards the hallway. “Go, _go.”_

Kreacher's wails had followed them, laments over Harry's incompetence mixed with cries of despair at having let down the noble and most ancient house of Black.

Harry had thought privately that not having any biscuits hadn't been their greatest failing. 

“Do you always let him boss you around like that?” Malfoy had asked once they'd reached the safety of the hallway, though there’d been something distinctly rattled in his voice that had spoiled the mocking derisiveness in his tone somewhat.

“Life’s easier when I pick my battles with him, I’ve found,” Harry had said. “And we’ve already had a row about lunch.”

Malfoy had snickered at that, and Harry had been surprised to find that he didn’t think it sounded particularly mean spirited.

Harry's attention had been caught by Malfoy’s fingers drumming against the file he carried.

“It’s not finished yet,” Harry had found himself saying.

Malfoy had raised an eyebrow at him. “I know. That’s why I’m here. So I can finish it tomorrow.”

“Right,” Harry had said, scratching at the back of his head. “Sorry.”

Malfoy’s eyes had flitted downwards, and suddenly Harry had been aware that all he was dressed in was the green and gold Hollyhead Harpies set of flannel Ginny had gifted him for his birthday a couple of years ago ( _“To combat the overabundance of the Chudley-orange already_ _in your closet_ ,” she’d said). The only button buttoned had been the one just above his navel.

He’d crossed his arms over his chest and tried to not look uncomfortable.

Malfoy had looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Where’s your wand?”

The question had come completely out of left field, and Harry had found himself entirely nonplussed. And a bit defensive when he’d realized that he didn’t actually know.

“Livingroom,” he’d lied-slash-guessed, trying to infuse his voice with surety. “Why?”

Malfoy had looked at him for a moment.

“You just apparated.”

“Oh,” Harry’s shoulders had fallen slightly. “Uhm, yeah.”

Malfoy’s eyes had narrowed further.

Then he’d abruptly changed the topic. “I brought these for you.”

Malfoy had bent and put his briefcase on the floor, and had then proceeded to pull a bottle rack from it. Six faintly glowing flasks were lined up in it.

“Pepper up. Whitherson’s sell them by the dozen, so I assumed you’d be out by now.”

Harry had stared at the rack, not quite knowing what to do or how to feel.

Finally, Malfoy had rattled the thing. “Will you be wanting them or no? I’ll take them home with me, if not.”

“No, wait, yes, please,” Harry had rambled, snatching them quickly from Malfoy’s hand before any of his threats could be carried out. "Thanks."

Later that same evening, Harry had tipped his head back and drunk the potion in big, greedy gulps. The potion had been unusually minty and had had a cool texture that had felt like a balm running down his coughed-sore throat.

Once the bottle had been empty, Harry had noticed a tag at the bottom of it. Curious, he turned it over.

_Brew date November 3 rd, 01, _it read, _Willowroot._

Harry had frowned, squinting.

As out of it as he had been in his sick state, he had not yet lost command of his mental faculties to the point of being unable to recognize the swirling script – he saw it more than often enough, its appearance inevitable on any and all paperwork that passed through the office.

_Malfoy’s_ handwriting.

He’d sat the flask down and stared at the rest of the batch sitting on his kitchen table. Had Malfoy… brewed the potions?

Potentially _especially_ for him, if the brew date was anything to go by.

As mystifying as this potentiality had been, and for as much he’d pondered the matter during his last couple of days stuck at home, no suspicion that Malfoy would have tampered with the potion ever crossed his mind. As a matter of fact, so complete was the lack of any misgivings that he never even thought to note their absence as odd.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_His hands shake too much to find a pulse._

_He is crying, but only knows because he can taste the salt in his mouth._

* * *

It had been a late Wednesday afternoon that Harry had realized that he’d officially gone off the rails. A visit by Ron had been the instigating factor.

“What’s up,” he’d said, sticking his head through the door, not waiting for a reply before he’d continued: “‘Mione and I talked about getting a pint at the Leakey tonight, so I’m on my way there now. Wanna join?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry had said, relieved to have a semi-valid reason to cut his paperwork for the afternoon a little bit short, and put his quill down. “You coming, too, Malfoy?”

And the thing was, he hadn’t quite realized that he’d said something out of the ordinary until Malfoy’s reply took a little bit too long and Harry looked up from the shuffle of parchments.

Malfoy had looked utterly stunned, and Harry had realized with dawning panic that he’d _Fucked Up_. Ron and Malfoy had traded a look, wearing identical expressions, and that alone had surely been enough to count as a sign of an impending apocalypse.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Malfoy had said stiffly.

Harry had been so caught up in trying to figure out what the hell was the appropriate way to answer _Draco Malfoy_ on that one – _‘No problem, mate’_? _‘Oh, yeah, I forgot, you definitely would’_? _–_ that it had taken him several moments to realize that that hadn’t been a _no_.

Ron had, at this stage, turned his utterly befuddled expression on Harry. Their eyes had met for a moment.

Then Ron had turned his eyes heavenward and released a heavy sigh.

“Oh, why the bloody hell not,” he’d said, in that tone of weary long-suffering that he’d acquired since the War. “Might as well get it over with. Come along, why don’t you, Malfoy.”

Ron had turned around and walked out their door, shouting over his shoulder as it closed that he’d floo ahead.

Despite the awkwardness that had ensued in the office that he’d left behind, Malfoy had, indeed, ended up coming along.

Hermione had treated his arrival as though it had been expected: “Oh, Malfoy, Harry finally brought you with, did he? Well, I’d thought about getting some chips, but if we’re four we could get one of those platters to share that they’ve started with. Hannah’s said that they’re really good, and she’ll be biased of course, but I’m still interested. What do you think?”

After spending half their life with her, both Harry and Ron had well learned the lesson that Hermione’s ideas were usually best followed.

Malfoy had seemed entirely too befuddled to do anything but acquiesce.

What Ron had thought that they _‘might as well get over with’,_ Harry had never learned.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_He grips his face in his hands._

_“Wake up,” he demands. “Wake up!”_

* * *

One early morning in November, they’d been called to Diagon Alley, where someone had smashed the storefront windows of the _Bancroft & Bellett Botany Boutique. _At the time of Harry’s and Malfoy’s arrival, only a Devil’s Snare had been identified as missing, but the men owning the shop had had yet to take a full account.

Bancroft had immediately informed them that his sister had found herself in the company of some unsavory women and was vehemently insisting that they look into them.

“Do you know what a Snare that age goes for on the black market?! _Do you_?!” he’d demanded, and then had quickly descended into lamenting weepily: “Oh, sweet Christie, how are you going to _survive_ without me?”

 _‘Christie’_ had turned out to be the Devil’s Snare.

Malfoy and Harry had stepped a good distance away from the shop owners to discuss the statements they’d taken.

“We should have had some witnesses coming forward already,” Harry had groused. “I get that it was in the middle of the night, but Diagon is never completely empty. It must have made such a ruckus, all that glass smashing.”

“We had that storm yesterday night,” Malfoy had pointed out. “People might have kept indoors. Pity that owls can’t talk, though.”

He’d nodded his head towards the pet shop behind them.

Harry had glanced at the store, owls perched in the window, beholding the proceedings. Then his eyes had caught.

“Owls can’t,” he’d said, stalking over.

“Potter what-“

 _“Did you see what happened?”_ Harry had asked the almost fluorescently green snake lounging across a thick tree branch by the window.

It had lifted its head, peering curiously at him. _“See?”_

Harry had pointed behind him without looking away from the snake. “ _Over there. Did you see who broke the window?”_

A sharp intake of breath had pulled his attention towards Malfoy before the snake could give him its answer. Harry had turned towards him with a grin on his face, delighted by his own ingenuity.

Malfoy, though, had been white as a sheet.

For a moment, Harry had been mystified. Then the duel they’d had during their second year had suddenly resurfaced in his memory, and a delighted grin had broken across his face. He’d had a taunt on his lips, something about the snake being safely behind glass and that he’d promise that he hadn’t been giving it any instructions to attack, when something in Malfoy’s eyes suddenly stopped him short.

It hadn’t been their second year that his parseltongue had brought to Malfoy’s mind.

The smile had died on his lips and he’d stood from his half-crouch by the window.

“Malfoy?” he’d asked, but received no response. “Malfoy?”

He’d stepped closer. Had been able to see the tremble in his body, hear the shortness of his breath.

“It’s just me, okay?” Harry had said. “Just me.”

Feeling unmoored by the whole situation, he’d placed an awkward hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. This had caused his partner to startle terribly, but his eyes had refocused on Harry’s face.

The intense focus Malfoy had stared at him which had hardly made things more comfortable from Harry’s perspective, but nevertheless he’d dug out some encouraging words: “Yeah, that’s right, Malfoy, it’s just me. It- it’s Harry, okay?”

He’d glanced around but, as of yet, they hadn’t caught the attention of the other people on the street.

“C’mon, breathe, you can do it,” Harry had mumbled awkwardly, mostly in lack of anything better to say, but suddenly Malfoy’s hand had closed like a vice around the fabric of his robes over his chest.

Harry had nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden movement and had only barely managed to curb his impulse to fling a hex. 

“Yeah, okay, that’s- that’s good, hold on to me,” he’d managed, desperately wishing he’d had Hermione on hand. “Just- just breathe, okay?”

Harry had caught himself drawing exaggeratedly loud and deep breath in an effort to show Malfoy what he’d wanted him to do, and then felt immediately embarrassed. But, then, he hadn’t had any other ideas.

He’d firmed his grip on Malfoy’s shoulder and tried to meet his eyes as steadily as possible.

“C’mon, Malfoy,” Harry had said. “It’s just me.”

And, _finally_ , Harry had heard Malfoy draw a breath that reached all the way to the bottom of his lungs.

Finger by finger, Malfoy released his hold of Harry’s robes.

“Of course it is,” Malfoy had said, brushing off Harry’s hand as though it was a piece of lint, managing to sound withering somehow despite the tremor in his voice. “Who else has a face ghastly enough to put me in such a state?”

It was hardly a biting insult, but still it was rather surprising when Harry had found himself grinning slightly in response to it.

“Dunno,” Harry had said. “Your mirrors in the morning, maybe?”

Malfoy’s gaze had gone narrow and sharp, though no expression of anger ever crossed his features.

“Shut up,” he’d said, punching Harry’s arm, which had only led to Harry grinning wider. “Did you get something from that snake, or what?”

This, though, had made Harry lose his footing. “Er- I-…”

Malfoy had raised an expectant eyebrow at him. “Well, go finish what you started, then.”

He’d gestured impatiently for Harry to get on with it, and so Harry had – sneaking looks back at Malfoy all the while. Malfoy had rolled his eyes at him, but Harry had not missed the tightness around his mouth as he whispered with the snake.

It had paid off, in the end, though. The snake had pointed out Bellett, the second shop owner, as the one who’d broken the windows. Upon confronting him, the man had quickly broken down and confessed it all: Christie had grown exponentially under Bancroft’s expert care and, with this growth, had also come a longer reach. It turned out that Christie had been, in an almost systematic manner, smashing everything else in the store to pieces; the straw that broke the camel’s back had come the day before, when she’d flattened every last one of the rare breed of floating lotus that Bellett had cultivated.

“I knew you wouldn’t let her go!” Bellett had wailed, clinging to Bancroft’s robes. “I just- I didn’t know what else to _do!”_

As Bellett owned the property he’d destroyed, Harry and Malfoy had left the two men shouting and crying at each other on the street and returned to the ministry.

It hadn’t been until that late afternoon, though, that Malfoy, wrapped in his cloak and with his hand on the doorknob, had said: “He’d speak to her constantly.”

Harry’s head had snapped up, more because of Malfoy’s tone than any understanding of what he was speaking of.

“He’d-… He never made a single sound when he moved. But he’d talk to her. So that was always the first thing you heard – parseltongue echoing down the hallways.” 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

_It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work._

_He grabs his wand._

* * *

Towards the tail end of a Friday evening spent at the Leakey, Harry and Malfoy having just finished the recounting of how they’d wrapped up the case of the smuggled unicorn calf, Hermione had said smilingly: “Imagine if your sixteen-year-old selves could have seen you now."

Ron had almost spat out his butterbeer as he burst out laughing. “Oh, _Merlin,_ can you picture Harry’s _face!?_ Hah!"

"Hey," Harry had protested, slightly offended that Ron had directed his glee at _him_ with Malfoy as a perfectly valid target.

"No, c'mon, mate," Ron had said, his amusement holding absolutely none of the maternal undertones fondness-slash-pride that Hermione's comment had initially been delivered with. " _Sixth_ year?! You nearly went round the bend, back then, and you can't deny it! That was back when he was convinced you had a _scheme,_ you see, Malfoy. Heard your name as much as my own a while there!”

Harry had flushed, but insisted: “He _did_ have a scheme, though.”

“A successful one, even,” Malfoy had said, raising his glass in a mock toast.

“Not something to brag about, maybe?” Harry had pointed out.

“Oh, quite the opposite, I’d say,” Malfoy had retorted. “Proves I work well under pressure, doesn’t it?”

An odd way to frame having the life of yourself and everyone you loved threatened and depending on the success of your task, but fair enough. Harry had conceded the point with a nod and a twist of his lips.

Hermione’s mind, though, had apparently worked in a different direction.

“How _did_ you end up agreeing to partner with Harry?” 

“Oh, trust me,” Malfoy had said, watching the bottom of his glass as he swirled the bottom of his glass, “me agreeing was never part of the process.”

“ _What_?” Harry had asked, turning to him sharply. “But they told me that you’d already been working with them before we partnered up.”

“Well, that bit was my initiative,” Malfoy had conceded, and then his lips had turned up into a smirk as he’d glanced to his side at Harry. “It was the part where _you_ entered the picture that my reservations began.”

Harry had flipped him off and been prepared to drop the subject, but Hermione had pressed on.

“What was it that made you go to the Ministry in the first place?” she’d asked, brow furrowed. “Harry’s never told us.”

Harry had been about to tell her that it was because it was classified and that he didn’t even know himself when Malfoy had spoken.

“Grayback,” he’d said, voice flat. “He’d gotten his hands on nearly a dozen muggle children post-War, as you probably remember. A great big circus in the Prophet to start with, about them missing, with the suspicions about Death Eater involvement and all. But I suppose there were a lot of things to report on back then; two months later I saw a headline, by chance, somewhere in the middle of that bloody awful excuse for a paper, that they were suspending the search. They hadn't even fucking managed to figure out Greyback's involvement, the incompetent fools. _We're e_ _ncouraging any members of the public with knowledge about his whereabouts to step forward,_ they’d been quoted as saying, and I just remember thinking that they were crazy.”

Harry had stared.

“ _Completely_ crazy. That sadistic, brutal, inhuman piece of absolute _shit_ , and they’d just fucking _drop it_? Because the fucking _children_ he'd _kidnapped_ turned out to be a little bit hard to find? Well, lucky for them, Greyback never was clever enough to keep his mouth shut, not back when he’d been so sure that the Dark Lord would win - and certainly not once he figured out how little many of us wished to hear about his bloody _conquests,_ as he called them. I suppose I must have been particularly transparent in my dislike, because it wasn't long before he'd treat me to the extended version of all his exploits, heavy on the detail." Malfoy's voice had been filled with acid and contempt and, seemingly, not a small amount of it had been directed at himself. "Too many details, as it turned out. I figured that I still counted as a member of the public – however tenuously, back then – and made sure that the information I knew was passed to the ministry.”

Malfoy had dragged his hand through his hair; a gesture Harry had by then learned to associate with frustration

“They bungled it, of course. Scared him away. Got Rosswood, which was a poor consolation, even though they touted it as otherwise. Since they’d proved they needed it, I tried to be more thorough the next time I sent something in about what hideout I thought he might use. That one ended up being a dud, and the one after that. At that point, we mutually agreed the whole process would be more expedient if I was directly involved. Eventually, I got so involved that I was simply _in_.”

Malfoy had shrugged, as if to say _and that was that._

Silence had hung heavy for several moments after Malfoy had finished.

Finally, Harry had said: “That’s classified.”

He said it because that was the only thing his brain seemed to be able to produce, save for the disbelief that all this had been within reach just from asking. That he’d never thought to _ask._

Malfoy had waved his weak objection away.

“For my safety,” he’d said. “The consensus in the team I worked with was that I’d become a target for the remaining Death Eaters if they knew how much I’d helped out. I hardly think I need to worry about you three cavorting with that particular lot and revealing my sins.”

“Can’t be too much point in it, now, anyway,” Ron had said, after another couple of seconds of silence had passed. “Since you’re an auror and all, anyways.”

“That, too,” Malfoy had agreed, tone almost frustratingly flippant.

“So, what about Harry, then?” Ron had wondered, after having mulled over Malfoy’s words for another couple of moments.

“What about him?”

“Well,” Ron had said. “I mean, I know you said you didn’t have a choice, but-… Well, you weren’t exactly pals back then. Can’t have been fun getting told you’d be stuck with him – sorry, mate.”

Harry had foregone protesting the slight in favor of finding out what Malfoy would answer.

He’d shrugged.

“The last time we saw each other was when Potter spoke for my mother at her trial, and the time before that he swooped in on his broom and pulled me out of a literal fire. That’s the kind of thing that makes an impression on a man.”

There had been a rueful, almost self-deprecating, smile on Malfoy’s lips as he spoke, and he hadn’t met either of their eyes as he took another swig of butterbeer.

Hermione had gotten a sharp glint in her eyes at this point, but Harry had entirely missed it.

“ _That’s_ it?” he’d blurted.

“What’s what?” Ron had wanted to know, seeming startled at Harry's tone.

Harry had wanted to backtrack from his exclamation but hadn't known how.

“Well, just always thought it was a bit weird, is all,” he’d started, waving vaguely in the air, as if he could dismiss the subject that way. “When Malfoy first showed up, he just kind of waltzed into the office, calm as you please, and _-“_

Malfoy had burst out laughing ar that, and it had been so unexpected that the words had disappeared from Harry’s mouth.

“’ _Calm as you please’_ , Potter?” Malfoy had said, snorting. “What the hell kind of world do you live in?”

“Well, you were,” Harry had defended himself.

“I was most definitely _not_!” Malfoy had exclaimed. Malfoy had looked at him like he was being unusually thick, even by his standards. “Potter, I know we joke about this, but you _are_ aware that you are the most famous wizard of our age?”

Harry had rolled his eyes. “Yes, but-“

“Are you haven’t forgotten the part where we, sometimes even literally, were at each other’s throats for the better part of seven years?”

“No, but-“

“Potter, let me spell this out for you,” Malfoy had interrupted, tone abruptly gone a bit short. “I had discovered a vocation I wanted to go into. Something that, Merlin willing, might even help make up for some of the shit decisions I’d made previously in my life. And, through some great bloody miracle, the ministry was even willing to let me have a go at it.”

Harry hadn’t known what to say to that.

“And _then,”_ Malfoy had laughed, but there hadn’t really been any humor in it, “they made it clear to me that my position with the aurors was contingent on the public’s approval. And that that, in turn, meant that my one and only shot at the whole thing hinged on _you_ approving of me.”

Malfoy’s face had kept that mirthless smile as he finished: “Trust me, Potter, I felt a great many things as I walked into the office that day, but _calm_ was not one of them.”


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

_“Finite incantatem!” he yells, vainly. “Finite incantatem!”_

_His voice is so gravelly that the words barely escape._

* * *

May 2nd had eventually rolled around.

Harry had aggressively pretended that it wouldn’t, right up until the moment that it did.

Despite it being a Tuesday, work hadn’t even had the good grace to occupy his mind, on account of it having been declared a national wizarding holiday.

A gala had been planned to be held at Hogwarts that evening. The Great Hall would be magically extended beyond even its usual generous size to accommodate witches and wizards from all over Britain. There would be too much food, and too many speeches, and too many seats standing blatantly empty. Harry had once again been invited personally by McGonagall to attend as a guest of honor. Hermione had written his speech.

One day, he’d promised himself he’d gather enough courage to throw a bucket of water at the fire the moment he saw the slightest inkling of the headmistress’ head in the flames.

Having had agreed to attend the gala had, though, felt like enough justification to categorically reject any and all other invitations to human contact. He’d made the mistake the very first year to meet with his friends; Hermione and Ron, Ginny and Neville, Dean, Seamus, Luna… just… _everyone_. The guilt had been suffocating in a nearly literal sense, stuffing itself down his throat until he could hardly breathe. And they’d _looked_ at him…

This day, he was the Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived.

Even in the eyes of Ron and Hermione, he’d seen it, mingled with pity for all that they knew that others didn’t.

For just Harry, there wasn’t much room.

Ever since the very first year, he’d made it tradition to hole up in his apartment and refuse to see anyone. Ron and Hermione had, by this time, learnt that there was no point in bothering him.

Malfoy, however, had not.

The thundering knocks on Harry’s front door had been loud enough to pull him out of his bedroom on the second floor, muttering bitterly all the while as he’d descended the stairs.

“ _What?”_ he demanded sharply as he pulled the door open, not even bothering to wait to see who it was.

“And a good day to you too, Potter,” Malfoy had said, raising that eyebrow of his at him.

Harry had woken up feeling like he’d had a troll standing on his chest and had been in no mood to indulge anyone in anything. “What the hell do you want, Malfoy?”

“Feeling cheery today, are we?” Malfoy had asked, and Harry had been about two seconds from punching him in the face.

“Well,” Malfoy had continued before Harry had gotten the chance, “Lucky for you, I have just the remedy for that.”

Malfoy had held up a bottle of Firewhiskey, and Harry had paused slightly as the shimmer of the liquid had caught his eye.

Malfoy must have sensed his weakness because he’d pushed on: “It’s not going to drink itself.”

“The gala tonight,” Harry had said, not taking his eyes off the bottle. “I need to be there.”

Malfoy had rolled his eyes at him.

“You act as though _I’m_ the one cursed with the chronic inability to plan ahead,” Malfoy had said, pulling two shrunken vials from the pocket of his robes. “Sobering potion.”

Harry had stared at them.

“We’re going to feel like shit.”

Malfoy had grinned, taking his lack of protests as permission and pushing inside, closing the door behind him.

“Enlighten me – that’s going to be a change _how_ , exactly?”

An embarrassing amount of too generously filled glasses later, Harry had been sitting slouched in the armchair in his living room, tipping the bottle lazily back and forth as he rested it against the armrest and watched the amber liquid swirl.

Malfoy had been sprawled on the couch beside him, humming a quiet tune that Harry hadn’t been able to recognize.

They had been well and truly sloshed, and the clock hadn’t even struck four yet.

The label on the bottle had suddenly caught Harry’s eyes.

“1812,” he’d read aloud, a burst of panic shooting through the pleasant fog in his brain, “Malfoy, this is _good_ stuff.”

“ _Very_ good,” Malfoy had agreed, sounding pleased with himself. “ _300 galleons a bottle_ -good.”

Harry had choked on nothing, horrified at himself at the rate at which he’d downed his glasses.

“ _What!?”_

Malfoy had kept on humming his tune for a little bit, his sock-clad feet swaying a little along with the melody of it. He had crossed them atop the armrest, and his black trousers had ridden up slightly to reveal pale skin. His shirt had come untucked a bit from his trousers and the sleeves were both rolled up to his elbows, one arm slung over the backrest and the other holding the rim of his glass in a long-fingered grip a few inches above the floor.

“It was my father’s,” Malfoy had said, and Harry had torn his gaze away. Malfoy leaned his head back, back and back, until it hung over the edge of the couch and he looked upside-down at Harry. “He’s got these three bottles of it for longer than I’ve been alive.”

Malfoy’s hair had flopped down and away from his face, his Adam’s apple had jutted sharply from his throat. His lips had been twisted into a small and pleased smirk, and his eyes had been glittering as he spoke. “He’s always said that he was saving them for a special occasion.”

Unexpected warmth had bloomed in Harry's chest, then, despite his drink sitting (for that very moment, at least) untouched. He hadn't quite been able to tell quite if it was because of the implication that this occasion counted as special, or because it most definitely did not.

“Cheers, Potter,” Malfoy had said, raising his glass to clink it against Harry’s. In his upside-down, inebriated state, however, that coordination had proved too much for him, and he’d splashed the expensive whiskey all over himself.

He’d burst out laughing, hurrying to sit up and put his mouth to where the liquid was running down his arm. And Harry had laughed with him, until he had tears in his eyes, watching as Malfoy had attempted to lick a stray droplet off his elbow.

Whatever marks either of them may have borne on their bodies had not mattered.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

_A heartbeat that feels like an eternity._

* * *

It had always been too much to hope for, Harry had realized after the fact, that a good deed would ever go unpunished.

The naiveté in not anticipating – in not actively _preparing for_ – an attack seemed extreme in retrospect; Harry Potter _and_ Draco Malfoy? How could they possibly have resisted? 

They had caught Craig all the way back in March, just on her way home from work one evening, and had had her under an _Imperius_ ever since. That Harry had been vindicated by being correct in his insistence that Robards lumped all the smuggling cases on the two of them turned out to be a very thin silver lining indeed.

It had landed on their table much like any other, doled out at the weekly department meeting. A slow start; lots of pushing parchment. Digging up transaction records and certificates forged at about average standard. Finally gathering enough to determine that the group's focus was florae, primarily eastern European, with a sprinkling of miscellaneous minerals added in every now and again. Concluding based on signatures, handwriting, and quantities that at least three people were involved, though likely no more than ten. Spending a week and a half chasing down that shop selling magical scratch-offs by owl-order, only to find out that the group had only used it as a front for about eight months between oh-one and oh-two and that none of the names tied to it were real.

Eventually, though, the break had come from finding an address repeated on forms submitted by more legitimate shops doing business with the smugglers. This address had led them to a hangar a couple of miles east of Ipswich, which had appeared as likely place as any for the smugglers to keep their stock.

A reconnaissance mission had been planned to stake out the location.

Harry and Malfoy had apparated to the carefully pre-selected spot still bickering about where they should get their customary nightly snack after they were done.

“… then that’s down to your deeply unrefined palate, Potter, and quite frankly I will not indulge you any further,” Malfoy had continued in a hiss, referring to Harry’s insistence that the hole-in-the-wall on the side-street by Gringotts had the superior pickle.

Then all hell had broken loose.

Death Eaters.

The massive skull and snake had bloomed like a sickly green flower in the sky, more massive than any Harry had seen produced since the war. Men and women in skull-like masks had crawled out of every bush and dark corner, swarming them in seconds, and the light of spells had flared through the evening gloom like lightning.

Malfoy was faster with a shield charm than anyone else Harry knew.

It had served them both well that day, the cascade of color exploding against it like fireworks.

“We need to get inside,” Harry had said through clenched teeth, layering his own shield atop Malfoy’s and flinging a stunner at the nearest target.

The man had flicked it away from him with a twitch of his wand.

“No shit, Potter,” Malfoy had replied. “Twelve of them and two of us, don’t think we should try it on open ground?”

Despite it all, Harry had grinned a bit at that; Malfoy was consistent with his biting sarcasm in pressured situations.

“Keep the shield up,” was all Harry had said in response, and then he began flinging hexes.

They’d been well-practiced at this point, Malfoy near perfect in anticipating his moves and adapting their guard to let Harry’s magic through. Their opponents were more skilled – _far_ more skilled – than those they usually faced, however, and their saving grace was that they hadn’t been completely surrounded; with a sprawling and open field at their backs, the Death Eaters had likely chosen to forgo that advantage in favor of more secure hiding spots and opportunities for physical cover.

No unforgivable had been cast yet, so they had limited themselves to disarmers and reversible incapacitators only.

By the time they had neared the door to the building, two had gone down, but one of them had already been let out of her body-bind by another. Eleven against two, but as soon as they were inside, the numbers would matter less. Hopefully.

“Blood traitor!” one had hissed furiously, and the slashing hex had cut up the sleeve of Malfoy’s robe. And his arm.

“ _Shit.”_

Blood had spurted, Harry had instinctively taken over the shield charm as Malfoy had been forced to mend the deep gash in his bicep.

“You okay?” Harry had asked tensely, narrowly dodging a sickly yellow spell. A crucio? It had been too fast for him to be sure.

“Fine,” Malfoy had bit out. “ _Bombarda maxima!”_

The wall next to the door had exploded inwards.

“Powerful locking charms on the door,” Malfoy said in response to Harry’s unasked question. “Would have taken too long. They always seem to forget about the walls being breakable, though.”

“Let’s hope they don’t suddenly remember,” Harry had bitten out, and shoved Malfoy through the hole. With a flick of his hand, the shield burst into blinding light and a spray of shards. Another, and the dust from the demolition had been swept up and provided additional cover.

“Fuck,” Malfoy had said behind him.

Harry had glanced in his direction and had immediately found himself sharing the sentiment.

The hole in the wall would create a chokepoint, certainly, but once inside there would be no more cover for them than there had been outside; the whole building had just been an empty expanse of space.

No walls, no items stored, no _cover_.

If any doubt had remained of the whole thing being nothing more than a setup, it had gone at that moment. 

“Have you-?”

“Yes.”

“How long do you think-?”

“Another couple of minutes.”

Malfoy had nodded. “My thought as well.”

Harry had let the button he’d yanked loose from his robes clatter to the floor; its magic already spent. Malfoy’s eyes flicked up from it to meet Harry’s, and then there had been time for nothing else.

They had come through the smoke like living shadows.

They caught the first with a combined stunner, then a ball of flame exploded between him and Malfoy, forcing them to dive in separate directions. A blast of yellow light had followed shortly thereafter, and this time Harry had had no need to wonder about the nature of the curse. He’d screamed as he fell.

“Alive!” A voice had barked sharply through the shroud of debris, Harry barely even aware of it through the veil of pain. “We agreed!”

Malfoy had cast, and the pain had ceded.

Harry had rolled over, crawled to his feet, and covered himself with a shield. Malfoy had been several yards away, and the distance steadily increased by a focused barrage of spells; they’d been driving them apart. Malfoy had realized it too, if his furious and desperate looks in Harry’s direction had been anything to go by.

There had been no more opportunity for communication then, verbal or otherwise, as all their respective attentions had been demanded by fending off their attackers.

A _levicorpus_ had strung a woman to the ceiling.

At the other end of the vast room, a wizard had been adhered to the wall with a sticking spell, unconscious. An extra wand stuck out of the pocket of Malfoy’s robe.

Harry had physically dodged a slashing hex and heard a scream when it caught the wizard behind him.

Seven against two.

Four had remained around Malfoy, and three had still circled Harry.

“Alive!” the man same man as before had commanded, and Harry believed that had been the only reason they’d remained so.

“They’ll be no use to us if they get away!” The witch who’d snarled the words had been circling Malfoy and the utter _hatred_ in her voice had sent a chill of terror down Harry’s spine. “They need to _pay!”_

Cracks of apparition had echoed from outside. Sharp, a flood of it, like popcorn popping.

Harry had met the eyes of one of his assailants.

“ _THEY HAVE BACKUP!”_ the man had roared.

It had been like throwing oil on a fire. If the dueling had been ferocious before, it had turned into a torrent then. Barely the dark of night had been let in between the flashes of spells and all Harry had been able to do was keep raising his shields.

“Luella!” the man, the leader, had yelled over the din. Another urging: “ _ALIVE!”_

Outside the building, the shouts of the coming aurors had been audible, the clatter of footsteps closer. The sweat had run down Harry’s brow. He'd jumped out of the way of another crucio and paid for it by having a cutting hex tear through his wards. Dulled, it had still severed his robes and drawn blood from a wide gash across his chest.

“ _LUELLA!”_

The leader’s cry had been met only with a crazed roar as the aurors had finally burst in through the gaping hole in the wall.

Then green light had flashed almost impossibly bright in the hangar. So bright that, in the sudden burst of it, Harry had seen his shadow pained black against the wall.


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

_A release of breath._

_“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy says. “That one hurt.”_

* * *

Harry woke with a start, green still flickering before his eyes.

He didn't think and he didn't pause; he launched for his wand and apparated the second his fingers closed around the wood.

The wards around Grimmauld Place yielded with familiar ease, but then he slammed into those around the Manor. A distant thought that this could be dangerous, that this was the sort of thing that resulted in people being splinched to death, ran through his mind, but desperate terror pushed him on.

A heartbeat later, the wards tore, and Harry was through.

He stood in the ballroom where he had wrestled with Malfoy for his wand, the remnants of the protection around the house crackling like electricity on his skin.

He hardly noticed any of it.

_Where is he? Where..._

He set off at a half-run, some instinct or strange magic pulling him forwards. Down a corridor, up a flight of stairs... The moon glimpsed through windows, his steps a fast and echoing beat in the empty halls.

His heart was thudding, still halfway up his throat with fear.

Suddenly a shadow seemed to wrench itself from the wall, taking the shape of a man.

" _Stupif_ -"

Malfoy cut himself off, but the spell shot from his wand still. He'd been quick enough to point it away, though, and the spell grazed the wall on Harry's right.

Harry didn't even slow.

"Merlin, Potter, are you fucking _insane_?" Malfoy demanded. "What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging-"

Harry collided with him, knocking him back against the wall. Malfoy let out a small _oof_ but Harry hardly even noticed, too caught up in wrapping his arms around him, feeling his warmth, breathing him in.

"You're alive," Harry breathed, attempting to pull him even closer. "You're alive. Merlin, God, fuck, you're alive."

Malfoy, who had been making noises of indignation and protest, quieted.

His hands moved from pushing at Harry's chest to resting at his sides.

"Yeah, Potter," he said, after another moment, "I'm alive."

Harry made a vain attempt to pull him even tighter, buried his face in his neck, and breathed him in. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing.

Distantly, Malfoy’s hands coming up to rest against his back registered.

They stood beside a strip of wood painted white by moonlight in the darkened corridor. The night was utterly quiet, save the ragged sound of Harry’s breathing.

Harry himself, though, had too much racing through his mind to notice any of it.

“The killing curse was miles off, Potter, you know that,” Malfoy said, voice surprisingly low. He was startlingly close, closer than Harry could ever remember him being. “I was never hit by anything more calamitous than a stunner. I’m all right. I’m fine.”

There was something in the uncharacteristic tone of Malfoy’s voice that made Harry aware that this was not something that they did. That it would probably be best if Harry let go. His arms seized up at the first thought of it though, a prickle of magic shooting across his skin. But, embarrassment soon won out.

Feeling a bit like he was fighting his own muscles, he pulled his arms back and stepped away.

He looked up at Malfoy’s face before the thought struck him that maybe he shouldn’t. It was cast in blue, a small furrow between Malfoy’s brow as he pulled them together. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on him.

Harry suddenly felt so unbearably stupid that he had to look away. The hallway he had come from was entirely empty, though he thought that he spotted the hem of a fluttering robe in a painting as its inhabitant hastily vacated it. Harry’s cheek burned, and he had to hope that the darkness would be sufficient to cover it.

“Sorry,” he said, not managing more than a quick glance up at Malfoy’s face as he apologized. “I- I had a nightmare and-… I-…”

He found no words to finish his explanation.

Mortification flooded through him renewed at the attempt, the effort to give a good reason for his actions resulting only in the resounding conclusion that there was none. He’d left in nothing more than his boxers and the t-shirt he usually wore to bed, and didn’t even have his glasses – and yet he wasn’t sure that his state of undress was the primary reason for how exposed he felt.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“Hardly uncommon, in our age bracket,” Malfoy said eventually, magnanimously.

Harry braced for the light mocking that was sure to follow, of Malfoy pronouncing him _excessively dramatic, as ever,_ but it never came.

He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse.

… No, no, that wasn’t true, it definitely made him feel worse.

“I should-“

“Can I get you anything?” Malfoy asked. “Tea? Warm milk? Something stronger?”

Harry’s mouth wouldn’t quite completely close.

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Malfoy said in response to his unasked question. “I hardly want to give you cause to question my competency as a host.”

Harry hadn’t been to the Manor, at all, since the day Dobby had died.

Malfoy wore silvery-gray pajama trousers, tied with a bow below his exposed navel, and a blue silk robe that hung threateningly low on his shoulders.

Harry blinked and shook his head to clear it of thoughts.

“I’m not really a guest, though,” he protested. “I hardly think I’m owed any tea after breaking down your wards.”

“You’re the great Harry Potter,” Malfoy said, “visiting the home of a lowly Death Eater; one must make exceptions.”

Harry could have sworn he’d reached the point where it was no longer awkward to speak to Malfoy many months ago. Now, though, it appeared that he had relapsed.

“No,” he managed, after a slightly too extended pause. “No, I-… I think I should just-… go back to bed.”

For a long moment, Malfoy just watched him.

Harry, for some reason, did not move.

“Are you absolutely sure I can’t get you anything?” Malfoy asked again. “I am quite certain there’s still some of that Firewhiskey around.”

Harry was shaking his head before Malfoy had even finished speaking.

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said after a moment’s pause. “Come on, then.”

He turned around and started walking.

It was the opposite direction that Harry had come from, and not the way he would have expected Malfoy to lead them. He hesitated only for a second, though, before he followed; Malfoy knew the house best, after all.

It would be possible to apparate, of course, since he’d ruined the wards, but suggesting that he would do so seemed somehow impolite.

They walked in silence and, to Harry at least, it was not a comfortable one. The urge to apologize further would not leave him, though each time he started collecting the breath to do so he realized that it would inevitably mean that he would have to offer some sort of explanation. And that, he still could not give.

So, he ended up quietly trailing after Malfoy, noticing him glancing his way every time he drew for the breath to say something. He never commented on Harry’s aborted attempts at speech, though.

“Here we are,” Malfoy said, after what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t actually have been more than a minute.

He opened the door they were stood in front of.

That it did not look particularly like a door that would lead outside had not been something that had given Harry reason to suspect that something was amiss; a fireplace was likely to be the nearest exit, after all, and the most expedient way for him to get back home. When the door swung open, though… 

The room was a bedroom.

It was spacious, though not massive, with a sturdy wooden desk with matching chair, a settee by the window, and a bed over to the right. The bed was wide and made with white dark covers with a silky sheen, and it had quite clearly been slept in. There was no fireplace.

“We have guest rooms, naturally, but I rather think that that would defeat the purpose,” Malfoy said, gesturing for him to step into the room.

Harry stood rooted to the spot.

“Defeat the purpose of what?”

Malfoy’s eyes shifted to his. There was something very considering in them; far more so than Harry would have assumed his question warranted. Malfoy’s eyes traveled across his face.

“Company,” he said, finally, putting a hand on Harry’s back and pushing him gently into the room.

He closed the door behind them.

Though there could hardly be much of a difference to the hallway outside, the utter quiet of the bedroom struck Harry. He didn’t know what to do with his arms. And suddenly he remembered again that he was only in boxers and a worn t-shirt with a hole by the hem. And that he was barefoot.

Malfoy wasn’t wearing any socks or shoes either, though his feet was halfway covered by the slightly overlong legs of his pajamas. Harry wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Malfoy’s bare feet before. He had… odd toes.

“You go first,” Malfoy said. “That’s my side.”

He gestured to the one closest to them.

Harry looked up from Malfoy’s feet to his bed. It looked somehow… intimidating.

After a few moments, Harry started: “I’m not-…“

Malfoy had shrugged off his robe while Harry had been staring at the bed, and walked over to his dresser. Clad only in his trousers, he was rifling through a small set of drawers standing at the very edge of the overlarge space inside it. Harry thought that he probably should look away, but didn’t.

“You’re not _what_?” Malfoy asked, pushing the drawer closed and turning with a neatly folded black t-shirt in his hands. He unfurled it with a flick of his wrist and then pulled it over his head.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, after a moment that had stretched just a little bit too long.

Malfoy’s eyebrow rose. “Can’t say you look it.”

Harry could probably not argue against that one.

“I mean, I can go back home. You don’t have to let me stay here.”

“I am very much aware that I don’t have to, thank you.”

Harry blinked.

Why did Malfoy have to make it so _difficult_?

“I’ll return to help you fix the wards tomorrow, of course,” Harry said. “But I think it’s best if I sleep in my own bed tonight.”

Malfoy looked at him, his expression flat. “That would be best, hm?”

“I…” Harry didn’t know what to reply. “Yes, I think so.”

Sleeping in Malfoy’s bed felt like an intrusion; the mere idea of it set his body on edge in ways he couldn’t quite identify.

“ _Oh, for Merlin’s sake_ ,” Malfoy muttered to himself, eyes going heavenward, just loud enough for Harry to catch it. Then his gaze locked firmly on him. “Look, Potter, the bloody thing is six feet wide, and with an extension charm we could probably easily make it be eight. Build a bloody wall of pillows, too, if the thought of accidentally coming into contact with me distresses you so.” 

Harry glanced back at the bed. Malfoy’s little speech had probably been meant as encouraging, but the result of it was mostly that Harry now felt bad for inadvertently having insulted Malfoy, on top of still feeling supremely silly for having come to the Manor at all.

“Look, I’m not blind, Potter.”

Harry’s stomach immediately curled itself into knots and sank like a stone. What he feared would follow the words, though, he could not have said.

“It’s not as if your little show today left my doubt as to what your nightmares are about,” Malfoy continued. “And Merlin knows that you’ve had more than your fair share of people die of that particular curse, and perhaps tonight just happened to be the rare night where I had the dubious honor of falling victim to it, but you’re not _fine,_ Potter. You’re _not.”_

Malfoy seemed to have worked himself up into a state.

Harry couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“You’re alone in that great big terror of a house of yours, and you’re too bloody thick to ever ask for help – as if I haven’t been able to see you looking like a ghoul every morning when you’ve gotten to work these past two weeks. _Dreamless sleep_ , Potter? I know you’re shit at potions, but did you really forget that that’s a thing? And if you think it’s bloody _awkward,_ or something, to purchase it in Diagon, then _I’ll_ make it for you. I’ve already purchased the ingredients and brewed the base, because I had the foresight to anticipate you being a bloody idiot, but it’s the middle of the night now and we need to wait for the moon to wane, so you can’t have any right this moment.”

For all the words that came pouring out of Malfoy, Harry found that he had few to respond with.

“I refuse to let you be alone another night,” he said. “Merlin help me, Potter, I would take your wand from you if I thought it’d help. Your options are either to stay here, or I am coming with you. Take your bloody pick, but I am _not_ compromising.”

Malfoy glared, and Harry could do little but stare back.

“Okay,” he said.

“ _Okay_?” Malfoy demanded, tone still argumentative.

“Okay,” Harry said again. “I’ll stay.”

Malfoy looked at him searchingly for a moment.

“Okay,” he repeated then, seeming to deflate slightly, even though some of his prickliness remained: “Well, you’re welcome to have the couch if you want, but it’s never taken transfiguration particularly well and whoever constructed it had a severely deficient grasp of what might pass for a sufficient amount of stuffing _._ ”

Again, Harry glanced back at the bed.

“I-… I mean, if you’re okay with it… I’ll share with you?”

“By all means, Potter,” Malfoy said with a huff, gesturing at it. 

Harry looked at him and hesitated for a moment, then turned around and clambered into bed. Having to climb over the spot that Malfoy had indicated as his own felt like an excessive amount of ground to cover and, when he finally rolled over and got under the covers on his side, his face was hot.

“Well,” Malfoy said, still standing in the same spot as before.

Then he shook his head lightly, walked over, and got into the bed. The candles that had lit the room went out with a flick of his wand.

As Harry felt the bed dip under Malfoy’s weight, Harry thought again of that question Hermione had asked them – _what if your sixteen-year-old selves could see you now?_

He almost began laughing hysterically at the mere thought.

Harry had never shared a bed with someone he hadn’t first had sex with – and even that list really only included Ginny. Draco Malfoy seemed a very odd place to start.

“Goodnight then, Potter,” Malfoy said, in what Harry couldn’t help but think of as his ‘office voice’. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Harry responded into the darkness.

Harry lay on his back – a position he most definitely did not usually sleep in – and, in the periphery of his eye, he could make out Malfoy’s form, turned away from him.

 _Well, I won’t have to worry about nightmares now,_ Harry thought, _seeing as there’s no possible way that I’ll fall asleep._

It took a while but, eventually, Malfoy’s breath went deep and even. With him asleep, Harry dared move around enough that he could find a comfortable way to lay. It ended up being on his side, turned so that he was staring at the back of Malfoy’s head. The faint light that escaped through the cracks in the curtains was enough that he could distinguish between the light of his hair and the dark of his pillow; the black of his shirt and the paleness of his skin where the covers had slipped down.

The bed was soft, the hour late, and his pillow fluffy.

And slowly, slowly Harry found something unwinding within him.

Keeping his eyes open as long as he could, he eventually fell asleep

He woke with a start, shooting upright with his heart hammering in his chest. The green light still flashed in his memories but, in the real world, the night was still dark.

For one terrifying moment, he had no idea where he was.

Then the warmth of the blankets against his skin seeped through his panic, the soft light of the moon peeking through thick velvet curtains. Draco in the bed beside him.

Harry let out a shaky exhale, the tension easing from his body.

 _Alive_.

He was alive.

Malfoy had not woken, though, despite how Harry had bolted upright. He lay on his back, now, lips slightly parted in sleep. His hair was tousled and lay in stark streaks across the dark of his pillow. Unable to tear his eyes away, Harry laid back down again.

For several heartbeats, everything was absolutely still. Then the disquiet started creeping in.

He _was_ alive, wasn’t he?

It was not many moments until Harry could no longer withstand the creeping terror, and he lifted his hand and held it, hovering, above Draco’s nose and mouth. For what felt like too long, there was nothing, and Harry’s heart leaped in his chest. Then a brush, warm and humid, swept across his fingers.

“Merlin, you’re creepy, aren’t you?”

Harry just about jumped out of his skin at Malfoy’s mumbled voice, snatching his hand back as if burnt. He stammered to find some excuse or explanation but, of course, there was none. Again.

Malfoy had cracked one eye open and looked at him. Harry looked back, prepared to vacate Malfoy’s bed the moment he said the word.

But no sooner than that, he found.

“Oh, calm down, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice still calm and soft and slightly raspy with sleep. “It’s not like that's news to me.”

Harry found his hand caught by Malfoy’s, and then pressed against soft fabric.

“There,” Malfoy said, his voice by now only a mumble. “There you go.”

Malfoy held Harry’s hand flat against his chest and, for several long moments, the adrenaline coursed too fiercely through him for him to be able to register anything.

Then he felt his heartbeat.

Harry hardly dared breathe, but Malfoy appeared to already have fallen back asleep.

The next time Harry woke, it was morning. The curtains hardly stood a chance against the light, now. The windows faced east, and the morning sun painted long and golden bands across the bed and on the floor.

Malfoy was still sleeping.

Harry was on his side still, facing him, with his arm reaching towards him. Malfoy, however, had rolled onto his side and curled up in his sleep. His face was placid and calm in a way it rarely was when awake. Harry felt horribly invasive for having looked at all.

Face heating, he hurried to get to his feet.

Except now that he was standing, and out of the covers of Malfoy’s bed, he somehow felt even more awkward. Oh, Merlin, he’d _slept_ _in Malfoy’s bed._

 _Only_ slept, his mind jumped in to specify, which naturally led his mind to what the alternative would be and that was all just _way_ too much, really.

Trying to push any and all such thoughts out of his mind before he’d gone the actual shade of a tomato, he summoned his wand with a flick of his hand. He hadn’t the heart to transfigure his old t-shirt – he’d learned the hard way that he wouldn’t ever get the fabric quite right again – but his boxers he had no sentimental attachments to. Despite textiles never having been his strong suit, he managed to coax them into being full length. It wasn’t an entire success though; the now-trousers retained a bit of their stretch and stayed a bit weirdly tight over his bum even as they draped loosely over his feet.

“You could just have borrowed something of mine, you know,” came suddenly a mumble from the bed.

Harry just about jumped out of his skin.

Malfoy stretched on the bed, rolling over to his back.

“Unless you were planning on sneaking out without my notice, in which case I’ll remind you that you promised to help me repair the wards you tore down.”

“I’m- I wasn’t-…” Harry tried, but Malfoy quickly waved him away.

“Oh, calm down, Potter, I was only teasing. Naturally the Golden Boy would never skirt his duties.”

Malfoy was grinning lazily up at him, an arm lifted above his head and tucked under his pillow.

Harry stared helplessly down at him and wished desperately for him to get up out of bed.

Some of Malfoy’s smile faded as they looked at each other, until it no longer reached his eyes.

“Well,” Malfoy said, throwing off the covers and did as Harry had wished. “Can I at least offer you breakfast, or did you intend to dash off as soon as you were able?”

There was something biting and bitter in Malfoy’s tone, speaking of that he was already certain what sort of answer he would receive. It plucked uncomfortably at Harry’s conscience.

And, fuck, he didn’t _mean_ to keep acting like he was looking for the quickest route of escape; half the reason this whole thing had been so awkward was probably because Harry had _made_ it awkward. But there was something itching at his back of his head. Something uncomfortable and restless bubbling up in him if he looked at Malfoy for too long. Something that made his legs twitch impatiently and his whole body stay on edge.

It was creeping closer, like a fuse burning, and Harry could only desperately try to keep it away.

Doing so at the expense of slighting Malfoy, though, seemed to be taking it one step too far.

Nevertheless, Harry felt like he was sealing his own fate when he said: “No, I, er-… Breakfast sounds pretty good, actually. If it’s no trouble?”

The look of genuine surprise on Malfoy’s face spoke of how utterly sure he’d been that Harry would decline, and Harry’s conscience gave another twang.

“You’re always trouble,” Malfoy replied, but Harry caught a small smile before he’d turned away.

Contrary to his words, though, Malfoy had called an elf to his room and informed him that there would be two people for breakfast today, thank you. After that, he’d again offered Harry to borrow something from his closet. Harry had declined, perhaps a little bit too quickly, if Malfoy’s raised eyebrows had been anything to go by (but the itching in the back of Harry’s head had increased at the suggestion, the fuse flaring bright, and he hadn’t quite been able to stop himself). In the end, though, Malfoy had simply shrugged and decided to forgo changing out of his pajamas as well, with an _if you won’t_ and a shrug.

As Malfoy lead their way down the corridors, Harry couldn’t help but despairing a little bit at his decision, if only to have gotten Malfoy into ordinary clothes. It felt- _too intimate,_ somehow to see him like this, when Harry usually barely even saw him out of uniform. His eyes kept ending up at Malfoy’s exposed arms, the nape of his neck, where the shirt clung to his shoulder blades.

By the time Harry sat down at the table, what he previously might have called a fuse now felt like a drum, booming out a restless and threatening beat; like the steps of some great beast closing in.

Or perhaps that was simply the beat of Harry’s heart?

The room they were sat in was some sort of veranda, walls entirely made of glass. A great big mahogany table stood in the middle and the room was decorated with a profusion of growing things, many of which were in bloom. A marvel of a room, really, and yet Harry barely managed to take any of it in.

He kept having concentrate firmly on keeping his eyes away from Malfoy, and yet never seemed to be looking at anything else.

“Tea?” Malfoy asked.

They were sat at one end of the table, a generous breakfast of fruits and meats and eggs was laid out between them, and Harry hadn’t noticed it either being there or appearing.

“Earl grey,” Malfoy specified, when Harry didn’t answer for a little bit too long.

“Yes, please,” Harry said, not because he particularly wanted it, but simply because it seemed like the thing to say.

Malfoy poured from the kettle into Harry’s delicate little cup and Harry concentrated so thoroughly on watching the stream and nothing else, that he never noticed Malfoy frowning slightly at him.

Malfoy sat back down, then reached over to the bowl of sugar, picked up two cubes, and plopped them into Harry’s tea.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“You’re welcome,” Malfoy replied.

Though Harry’s contribution was fairly marginal - bordering on non-existent, really - Malfoy managed to keep up a conversation as they filled their plates. He indicated the marmalade he found to be superior this time of year, informed Harry on how the greenhouses were spelled to manage fresh tomatoes year-round, as well as continued his musings on how they might go about setting up the wards.

Harry mostly kept shoveling food into his mouth, at a rate that would probably be considered impolite.

He hummed around his mouthfuls whenever the situation appeared to demand it.

Eventually, Malfoy descended on a bowl of strawberries, pulling away the calyx with the help of his thumb and a spoon, and then eating them with his hands.

“As for the layering, I think the charms for the alerts should most likely be furthest in,” Malfoy was saying, pausing to take another bite, his lips colored red by the juices. Finishing the berry off, he licked his fingers and picked his fork back up, skewering a piece of melon. “I’ve heard it said that you will end up with sturdier wards if those are the outermost – and particularly outside the defensive wards – but I’ve found that they sometimes become a little unstable that way, particularly before they’ve had time to settle. Prone to go off unnecessarily, and such. Hm, might even be especially wise to take the innermost route, taking your particular magic into account. You know, I can’t say I’m particularly displeased in having you beholden to me in this task, considering the frankly absurd levels of pure magical power you possess. No elegance, of course, but still… Oh, do you think you could manage a _praesidium regio_ over a house this size? Perhaps if we collaborate? A little overkill, of course, but if we could manage it would certainly be something. … Potter? … Are you even listening to me?”

Malfoy put down his fork and looked at him.

Harry swallowed.

The drumming had escalated into a ruthless thundering and his pulse appeared set on keeping its pace. The itch in the back of his mind, the twitching in his leg; both so relentless that he could barely stand to stay seated on the chair. He _could not_ look away from Malfoy,

“Yes…?” he tried, only aware that he’d been asked a question because of Malfoy’s lasting silence.

It only earned him an eye-roll.

“You seem truly scatterbrained today, Potter,” Malfoy said, “even by your, admittedly low, standards. Is something the matter?”

Malfoy peered at him, brow slightly furrowed, and the dam burst

_Oh fuck._

"I love you."

Malfoy froze, the rigidity of it somehow plain despite him having sat still even before. His eyes went wide, and a hint of pink spread across his cheeks.

Then he blinked.

"There's no need for that kind of sentimental nonsense, Potter," Malfoy said, rather tartly, and picked up his fork again and resumed eating. "I'm sure that's all fine and dandy with your usual Gryffindor layabouts, but classier folk will feel smothered if you spell out your affections quite so clearly."

It had felt like stepping off a cliff, having the words tumble out of his mouth, his insides going light despite all that terror. But the soaring sensation in Harry's belly abruptly plummeted at Malfoy’s words; shot out of the sky by a veritable bludger. Nausea followed.

"I thought I had rubbed off some Slytherin manners on you by now," Malfoy continued, not even looking at him as he cut another piece of melon and pierced it with his fork. "But clearly I will need to redouble my efforts."

Harry wanted to leave.

Desperately, he wanted to leave.

But that would require standing and he wasn't quite certain that his legs would be up to the task. He stared blankly down at his lap, holding absolutely still as panic wared with nausea within him.

What had he _done_?

"Dear God," Malfoy said suddenly, tone abruptly entirely different. Harry couldn't help but look up. "You were serious."

Harry stood so suddenly that he didn't even realize he was doing it until the sound of the chair scraping against the floor reached his ears.

"I need to go," he said, not sure if he was addressing Malfoy, or the chair, or if he simply felt the need to instruct himself. "I need to-"

He turned without finishing the sentence, heading for the glass doors at the other end of the room.

_Away. Away. I need to go-_

"Potter, _wait!"_

No, no, absolutely not, he couldn't do that. He couldn't stay here a single moment longer, not when-

Malfoys hand closed around his arm like a vice and spun him around.

"For fuck’s sake!" Malfoy said, sounding somewhere between angry and confused. "What the hell is wrong with you, Potter?!"

 _A lot of things_ , Harry thought. Malfoy was so beautiful; how could it possibly have taken _this_ long to realize?

Out loud, though, he managed a mechanic: "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Malfoy asked, that little wrinkle on his nose appearing as it ever did when he thought Harry was being ridiculous.

The words, which had slipped out so treacherously easy before, would not come now.

And with despair Harry realized that, despite the absolute idiocy of it, loving Malfoy was not something he was willing to apologize for. Not even to the man himself.

Harry's throat clicked as he swallowed.

Malfoys expression shifted as he watched him. The frustration and the urgency slowly started melting away as he realized that Harry had given up his attempt to escape. His eyebrows knitted together slightly as his gray eyes traveled across Harry's face, cataloging it with the same expression he usually wore when a new casefile landed in his desk.

Harry felt terrified. He'd seen Malfoy crack cases after nothing more than a thorough flip through the related parchments, that wonderful mind of his noticing details and unraveling threads that no one else had thought to look twice at.

Harry felt certain that he'd be a far easier read than one of those files; any chance of claiming temporary insanity or platonic feelings was quickly running out in the sand.

But his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, and he could not bring himself to speak.

Malfoys eyes found his.

"I can't fault your tastes, I suppose," he said, mouth curling into a small smirk. "My own, on the other hand..."

Harry didn't know what to make of Malfoys words. Didn't know whether to brace for getting yelled at, or for a gentle let down.

And he didn't know which one was worse.

The thought struck him, then, that perhaps Malfoy wouldn't be comfortable being friends with him after this. It stuck like glue in his head, louder and more terrible than anything else, and produced a painful lump in his throat that was difficult to breathe around.

Then Malfoy kissed him.

His lips were slightly damp against Harry's own, the scent of honeydew and strawberries clinging to them, and Harry was utterly, utterly bewildered.

Then Malfoy pulled back.

“Changed your mind already, have you?” Malfoy asked, though the attempt at humor seemed somehow a little bit wobbly.

As Harry continued to not say anything, the smile slipped entirely off Malfoy’s face and he took another step back.

“Did I misunderstand?” His tone was now entirely flat.

Harry blinked. “I… I don’t know?”

How the bloody hell was he supposed to, when he didn’t even know what fuck was going on himself?

“ _Potter,”_ Malfoy said, gritting his teeth and spinning away for a moment only to turn right back around in the next. “I just fucking _kissed_ you!”

He said it like an allegation, like it was Harry’s fault.

And surely it must have been?

“Why?” Harry blurted before he could help himself.

“ _Why the bloody hell do you think?!”_ Malfoy exploded.

“Because I love you?” Harry guessed, cheeks heating almost painfully.

“What?! _No!”_ Frustration was followed quickly by bewilderment, then just a quick glimmer of what might have been joy, before it descended into frustration again. “I-! _What?”_

Harry shrugged, feeling like the situation was spiraling out of his control far faster than what he ever could have ever anticipated.

“Did you _like it?”_ Malfoy demanded, the question sounding like an accusation.

Harry’s throat closed up; this, for some bloody reason, apparently crossing over the edge of what he was willing to admit.

He ended up shrugging again.

“No, _no,”_ Malfoy said. “ _Fuck you,_ Potter. What the _fuck?”_

“ _I_ don’t know!” Harry protested. “I’m sorry, okay!? I didn’t mean to tell you!”

“You didn’t-…? What do you _mean_ you didn’t mean to tell me?” Malfoy demanded. “And I don’t understand what the bloody hell you keep apologizing for?!”

“I don’t know!” Harry cried again. “For making it weird! I didn’t _mean_ to tell you, okay?!”

“Oh, so, what?” Malfoy asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You just planned to keep it a secret, did you?!”

“Yes!”

“ _Why?!”_

“ _Because you don’t bloody want me that way, do you!?”_ Harry burst, shame and something that might perhaps have been anguish twisting his voice into something harsh.

Malfoy stared at him.

Then he sighed, put one hand on his hip and the other over his eyes.

“Potter, you dense motherfucker,” he said. “Of course I bloody do.”

Harry blinked, feeling like absolutely nothing about the current situation was making any sense.

“You… What?”

Malfoy’s hands dropped to his sides. “For and ill-advisedly long amount of time.”

Harry felt like he was short-circuiting.

Malfoy looked at him with a tired sort of patience.

“So, we’ve established that this is, apparently, mutual,” Malfoy said, finally. “And I have kissed you, and we’ve yelled a bit at each other. Would you like to do something else with all these feelings we’ve now declared ourselves to have?”

Like when he’d offered Harry breakfast, he seemed to expect Harry to say no.

And Harry was feeling a bit like he was walking into a trap.

“… can we?” he asked.

Malfoy stared at him incredulously.

Then a twitch began in the corners of his mouth, a smile soon thereafter breaking across his face. Malfoy turned his face up and away, seemingly to hide his grin. It was a poor attempt, though, and also rather futile when he failed to keep in a snort.

“ _I_ am certainly not going to stop you, Potter,” Malfoy said, lips twitching.

Harry felt a grin overtake his own face.

“So…” he said. “You’ve kissed me. Can I kiss you now?”

“I don’t know, Potter,” Malfoy said, raising a mocking brow. “Can you?”

As it turned out, Harry could.


End file.
